Sanctuary
by brobdignagian
Summary: Quasimodo and Clopin meet before that fateful day at the Festival of Fools. --Disney based--
1. The Chase

**Title: **Sanctuary

**Author: **brobdignagian

**Rating: **PG-13

**Disclaimer: **I am not the owner the Hunchback of Notre Dame, either the book, which is owned by Victor Hugo, nor the animated movie, which is owned by Disney.

**Summary: **What if Clopin and Quasimodo had met before the Festival of Fools?

**Notes: **This story is based on the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as I have not yet finished reading Victor Hugo's book.

Clopin's a bit younger than in the movie, maybe around 20 or so…

I hope Clopin isn't _too_ out of character…

* * *

Clopin whipped his head behind him, gauging the distance between him and Frollo's horseback guards, and flung his head back around, praying the guards had not noticed his momentary judgment of distance.

It was getting colder--his breath was already visible--and getting darker. His deep purple outfit--which he, thankfully, opted to wear instead of his bright, jingly, recognizable, festival outfit--merged quite nicely with the setting sun.

His pocket held a bit of a _clang_ as the few coins he managed to make banged together. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tightly gripped the coins, fearful that was the sound giving him away.

He wandered the streets of Paris in hopes the guards would soon lose interest--he was, after all, needed at the Court. He fought down a shiver as the biting wind blew across his form. The temperature had dropped yet again.

After aimlessly passing the bakers' shop for the third time, Clopin racked his brain for an escape—or at very least a place to stay until it was safe. The butcher…no, too dangerous. The baker…no, just passed it. The candlesti-

He tripped.

His foot had caught hold of the uneven cobblestone and refused to let go. His hat took flight, the yellow feather landing in a puddle, the bright color immediately becoming consumed. His hands shot out of his pockets and in front of him before his face could get formally introduced to the ground. The coins flew out of his hand, irritated at their close confinement, and dove in every different direction. However, the sound of coins hitting the street was not the sound of another perfect puppet show performed—it was the sound of a gypsy desperate to get away from his pursuers.

He scrambled to his knees, grabbing every piece of gold in his sight. He heard the laughter of the guards draw closer…

He shot to his feet, making sure to sweep his hat out of the puddle and onto his head, and, after risking another glance behind him (They were gaining!), hurried off around the corner. Thinking quickly, he hasted down the first visible alleyway, hoping, _praying_, he blended into the darkness.

He held his breath as the laughing guards on horseback rounded the corner and passed his hiding place (One, two, three, four, five, six—six of them.) As soon as Clopin decided it as safe, he tiptoed out of the shadows and hurried in the opposite direction, to the one place he knew he would be safe for the night---Notre Dame.

However, it was not long until the guards noticed his absence.

"Dammit, where'd he go?" One of them cried, looking wildly left and right.

"_Domine,_ we can't let him go _again_…Frollo'll kill us!" Another stated. (Clopin couldn't stop a smile, remembering some of his earlier, more daring, escapes).

Clopin sped up. If he could just make it around the corner… Unfortunately, Lady Luck was not with him,

"There he is!"

"Get 'em!"

The sound of the horses' hooves hitting the street harmonized with Clopin's racing heart. The horses _neigh_ed and _huff_ed as their owners urged them on. The yells of the soldiers broke the silence of the cold, dark night.

Clopin hurried his pace, running, sprinting, flying down the roads of Paris, dashing past the bakers' shop he had briefly considered as a hide-out only moments before. Up ahead, the glorious church of Notre Dame came into view, He let out a sigh of relief, persuading his legs to run just a bit faster.

The guards were catching up. He rapidly entered the plaza that lay before Notre Dame, where the Festival of Fools was annually held. Even so, he had no time for fond memories of crows cheering, a petrified Judge Frollo, and the innocent laughter of children. He took off up the steps, a smirk slowly settling across his features.

He was almost there…

So close…

Suddenly, the guards were there beside him. He ducked, avoiding the punches aimed at his head. He laughed wildly as they yelled obscenities at him, and flipped to the top step of the church. Turning slowly, he walking backwards, and with arms swinging to emphasize his words, he said, "Really now, _monsieur's_, must this needless hunt continue?" He _tsk_ed, looking down at them, hands on his hips and shaking his head. "After all, it's you who are all the way down there, and I am claiming…"

He was two steps away from the open church doors. He opened his mouth to say the one word that would save him…

Without warning, his face finally introduced itself to the ground.

(He should have just run into the church. He _knew_ he shouldn't have taunted the guards. Or, at the very least, he should have realized there was one guard missing. But they'd been after him for _hours_ and he was within steps of freedom, so he was simply unable to help himself.)

After slamming into the ground, Clopin spun over, eyes widening upon seeing a guard, sword over his head, ready to strike. He backward-somersaulted to his feet, letting out a short laugh as he back-hand-springed out of the way of yet another guard on horseback. All of the sudden, a guard grabbed a hold of his arm. Reacting quickly, Clopin took his dagger out of his satchel, and thrust it into the shoulder of his captor, piercing the bone. The guard let out a shattering yell as blood streamed out of his armor. Clopin withdrew his dagger, and spun around—letting the wounded guard fall to the ground—grinning madly, to face his other attackers. One down—only five left.

Clopin shortly realized that, while the guards were quite possibly drunk, they were not stupid. They circled around him, attacking him at once. Blows came at him from all directions: shoulders, stomach, head, chest. Clopin valiantly fought back, swinging his dagger violently at the guards. Nevertheless, it did not take long until the guards managed to overcome him. He collapsed, bloodied and bruised, attacks still forthcoming. He heard the laughter of the guards as he lay on the cold stone, unable to stand.

However, the laughter soon turned into screams, and Clopin--dragging his head up and pealing his eyes open—glanced around. The guards had vanished and a large, determined figure strode quickly toward him. Too weak to stop the blows guaranteed to ensue, he simply gazed at the oncoming figure.

His world soon turned black.


	2. Sanctuary

**Title: **Sanctuary

**Author: **brobdignagian

**Rating: **PG-13 for violence.

**Disclaimer: **I am not the owner the Hunchback of Notre Dame, either the book, which is owned by Victor Hugo, nor the animated movie, which is owned by Disney.

**Summary: **What if Clopin and Quasimodo had met before the Festival of Fools?

**Notes: **This story is based on the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Clopin is around 20.

Quasimodo is around 13.

Quasimodo was incredibly difficult to write, so I apologize if he's out of character.

* * *

Quasimodo sat on top his bell tower, watching the glorious February sunset, as he did everyday; purple, red, blue, orange and black all mixed together as the moon chased the sun out of the darkening sky. His gaze wandered to the less glorious, but equally stunning citizens, who were hurrying to their homes before the boisterous streets of Paris became swarmed with thieves, criminals and gypsies.

How he envied them. _They, _who could walk around without the expatiation of being rejected as he would. _They, _who were not disfigured beasts as he was. _They,_ who had everything he could ever dream of—family, friends, _life._

He heaved a sigh, yearning, not for the first time, that he had not been born this repulsive creature, but instead a regular, accepted, _normal_ human being.

Just like everyone else.

Quite suddenly, he was torn away from his wistful thinking when a few of his Master's guards met up alongside the church, and proceeded to pursue a lone figure. Quasimodo frowned, briefly wondering who could be worth the time and effort of the guards (who never did anything, besides get drunk, without a direct order).

He shrugged it off, deciding that it was of no concern to him. He hauled himself up and, with a jump, slid down the roof tiles. Yet, he stopped at the railing before he could sail over. He remembered the last time he jumped off, he had barely misjudged the distance, only _just _missing his landing spot, and fell through the roof of the church, landing in a (thankfully) empty pew, in the middle of Sunday Service.

Needless to say, the Archdeacon had been surprised.

And his Master had _not_ been pleased.

At all.

Quasimodo gazed at the gap, carefully gauging the distance between him and the walkway—his landing spot—and decided that, if he jumped _just so_…

He was soaring. He closed his eyes. The biting wind flew through his bloodstained hair. This…it was pure bliss. Here, the rules didn't apply. Here, he was finally happy, he was finally free, he was…

His feet hit the walkway in a perfect landing. Gravity slammed against him, making his back, despite momentary painlessness in the air, _shriek_ in pain. Condemning himself even more, he hunched over, easing the pain. He sighed again, and opened his eyes.

The sun had set.

He trudged from the walkway into the bell tower. As he entered, he found that his only friends, the gargoyles whom resided in the balcony, had observed his exceptional jump and hobbled their way over to him.

"Nicely done, Quasi!" Hugo said, wrapping an arm around him, grinning broadly. "Soon, you'll be doin' flips off this ol' thing!" he said, slapping the walls of their bell tower.

Victor's opinion was quite different. "You really should be more careful, Quasi!" He said, wringing his stone hands nervously, "We wouldn't want you to fall through the roof again…"

Laverne simply waved off Victor's worries (causing the bird which had resided on her hand to flutter away). "Oh, shut your mouth! He can do back flips off the Colosseum if that's what makes him happy. Ain't that right, Quasi?" She questioned, turning to him.

He gave her a small, grateful, smile. "Thanks Laverne…but I'm happy just learning how to jump from the roof to the balcony."

She gave him a motherly smile, and gently patted his arm. "That's what I like to hear, Quasi…that's what I like to hear."

Before Quasimodo had time to think of an appropriate response to her endearing comment, Hugo shoved Laverne out of his way (She gave a loud _SQUAWK_, sounding eerily like the birds that were so attracted to her.). "But man, Quasi, imagine how _amazing_ it would be to flip from place to place!" He declared. He then decided to attempt a front flip of his own. He jumped into the air, and attempted to throw the rest of his body over his head. He hit the ground hard on his back, breaking through the wooden floors, crashing into the bell room below.

Quasimodo gasped and rushed over to the hole. "Hugo, are you alright?" He called down worriedly.

There was a pause before they heard a weak, "…'m awrite…"

After establishing the brain-dead gargoyle was fine, Victor jumped over Hugo's hole, landing in front of Quasimodo. He placed a hand on Quasimodo's upper-arm, remarking, "We just want to make sure you feel at home, and that you're happy here, Quasi."

Quasimodo gave him a smile in return. "Thank you Victor. I appreciate it."

It was then that Hugo entered the room via ladder, hunks of wood sticking out of him. The bird resting on Laverne flew over, took a piece of wood out of his hair, cooed and flew off. This caused Hugo to become red and start yelling at the bird, furiously shaking in an attempt to rid himself of the wood. Laughing a little to himself, Quasimodo walked off, vaguely hearing Laverne scold Hugo over needing to "be more careful when you do those so-called-stunts of yours!"

Entering the main room, Quasimodo shuffled over to the table which rested against the back wall, and gratefully sunk into the seat, taking the weight off his screaming back. Turning his sights to the items on the table, he carefully lit a candle, and gently took a hold of a hideous, unfinished wooden carving. It was a carving of himself, or at least it would be when he was finished. He saw wood carving was soothing, even if he didn't think he was good at it, despite Victor and Laverne's continual praises.

Taking out the small knife His Master had been so kind to lend to him, he started chipping away at his wooden figure. It didn't take long until he became completely engrossed in his task. The arguing of Victor, Hugo and Laverne faded into the background; his sight became limited to the glow of the candle.

When Quasimodo decided to stop, all was dark. He glanced out the open balcony, realizing the Heavens had finally chosen to reveal the stars. Stretching out of his chair, he walked out on the balcony (where his gargoyle friends had retreated to for the night) and gazed up at the night sky.

The stars made endless images in the skies. Not only were there the ones society had come to recognize—the famous figures and faces—but there were ones that he himself had invented. There he was, along with Victor, Hugo, Laverne. His Master was over there, next to the Archdeacon. The booths of the annual Festival where in the opposite direction, as well as several species of birds he had come to befriend.

It was a dazzling sight, yet not many people took time to stop and enjoy it. He glanced out among the city. Everywhere he looked, windows glowed with the light of candles as dinner was prepared, and children were put to bed.

Yes, it was a magnificent sight to behold. And it was his and his alone.

However, his wonderful sight was cruelly interrupted by rude laughter below his tower. His uneven eyebrows furrowed in confusion and he peeked over the balcony ledge, spotting the guards who had gathered before, whom were now beating the lone figure they had followed.

Quasimodo disgustedly shook his head at the barbaric actions of the guards. He couldn't understand why Frollo praised these brutal proceedings. He turned to go back inside his bell tower…

…yet, he froze when his eyes locked on a familiar hat, lying forgotten on the church steps. He frowned, unable to recognize where he'd seen the hat. He struggled to remember.

It couldn't be his Master's, _his_ hat was square and black… It wasn't the Archdeacon's, _his_ hat was small and red…None of the citizens wore brightly colored hats like that…In fact, the only time Paris saw colors that bright was at the—

The Festival of Fools.

That was it! The hat belonged to the leader of the Festival! The brightly colored one, who did acrobats, and one who gave puppet shows regularly in the square! The gypsy who—

_Gypsy._

Quasimodo's face darkened, realizing the guards were beating a gypsy. Gypsies had sanctuary in the Church of Notre Dame. And the guards were assaulting one mere feet from the Church itself!

His eyes blazed. _That wasn't right_.

Quasimodo looked around, attempting to find a way down to help the unfortunate gypsy. Without a much of a second thought, he leaped over the ledge, taking a hold of one of the many pillars, and slid down to the part-balcony below.

Once he landed, he took a moment to compose himself (He made it!), and glanced down, finding a rift to the right, and halfway down that he could land on. He hurried to the end of the ledge. He got down on his hands and knees, pushing his feet over the ledge, and onto the wall below. Maneuvering his hands until they were grasping the edge, he took a deep breath and catapulted himself to the rift, which, as he found, was _just _wide enough for him to stand.

He clung on to the uneven bricks, desperately praying he wouldn't fall. Gulping, he gathered the rest of his courage, closed his eyes and jumped the rest of the way down. He landed hard, his eyes shooting open, and grazed his knees on the cold ground as he attempted to regain balance.

Relived he was on the ground; he looked around for what had gotten him down in the first place. He looked around, noticing his Master's guards standing a circle, and gaping at him with barely concealed fear.

Remembering the gypsy, he determinedly set his face in a scowl, and walked over to the circle of guards. They all shrieked, lunged onto their horses, and sped away.

Quasimodo paid the guards no mind (although, part of him was actually relieved at his disfigurement—he didn't know how he would have reached the gypsy with all the guards present.), and strode over to the gypsy.

The gypsy himself simply gazed at him, his eyes glazed over with pain. (He was taller than Quasimodo imagined he would. Of course, he was usually hundreds off feet away…)

Quasimodo quickened his pace as the gypsy fell unconscious. When he reached the gypsy, he sunk to his knees. He carefully put a hand on the gypsy's chest, and was relieved to find it still rising up and down, although the rest of him was badly bleeding and bruised.

Knowing he had to get the gypsy to safety, lest the guards return, he gently picked the gypsy up, carefully resting him against his hunchbacked shoulders. He made his way to the open doors of the church.

Once he entered the church, he turned around to face the city once more. He spotted the guards poking their heads around the corner. His eyes narrowed yet again. "Sanctuary." He whispered, and closed the church doors.


	3. Right or Wrong?

**Title: **Sanctuary

**Author: **brobdignagian

**Rating: **PG-13 for violence.

**Disclaimer: **I am not the owner the Hunchback of Notre Dame, either the book, which is owned by Victor Hugo, nor the animated movie, which is owned by Disney.

**Summary: **What if Clopin and Quasimodo had met before the Festival of Fools?

**Notes: **This story is based on the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Clopin is still around 20.

Quasimodo is still around 13.

Again, I apologize if Quasimodo is out of character—he's still hard for me to write.

* * *

Quasimodo rushed up the spiraling staircase. The unconscious gypsy rested painfully on his aching shoulder, yet he paid it no mind; instead he focused his mind on the task set before him—getting the gypsy to safety one step at a time (The staircase never ended! The steps just kept coming and coming!).

After _hours _of running in circles, Quasimodo arrived at the bell tower. Pushing past his concerned friends, he made his way into a barren room. Carefully taking the gypsy off his aching shoulder (giving a silent sigh of relief as the pain in his shoulder lessened), he slowly set the gypsy down on his straw mattress. The gypsy's breathing was hitched and uneven, face clearly illustrating the pain he was feeling.

"What happened, Quasi?" Victor questioned as he hopped to the bed.

"Frollo's guards—they hurt him." Quasimodo explained, gazing down at the gypsy helplessly (What was he supposed to do exactly…?).

"Take his shirt off."

Quasimodo faltered, "Wha-What?" He stuttered, disfigured eyes widening as he turned to an exasperated Laverne.

She rolled her eyes. "His shirt—take it off. We need to see his injuries, and we can't do that while he's wearing a shirt, now can we?" She questioned, eyebrow raised pointedly.

Quasimodo started to turn red, but nodded. "…O-Okay…" He hesitatingly agreed, taking a step closer to the bed. Swallowing, he reluctantly reached out for the gypsy's shirt. Face bright red, he grasped the gypsy's dark-purple over-shirt and began to lift it over the gypsy's head. However, the over-shirt stretched high on the gypsy's neck, and Quasimodo had difficulty getting it over the gypsy's head. Biting his lower lip in concentration, Quasimodo moved closer to the front of the bed, so that he would get better access to the gypsy. Carefully raising up the gypsy's head, Quasimodo proceeded to maneuver the over-shirt over and off the head of the gypsy. After a bit of struggling, the shirt finally surrendered and relinquished its hold.

Once he had successfully gotten the shirt off, Quasimodo turned and placed the purple over-shirt out of the way—on the wooded floorboards near the door.

Rotating around to the unconscious gypsy, Quasimodo intended on repeating the process with the deep blue shirt the gypsy now wore (it had long sleeves and the gypsy was wearing black gloves, but thankfully, the shirt didn't have a long neck.).

Returning to the side of the bed, Quasimodo carefully took off the gypsy's long black gloves and placed them on top of the over-shirt. He then took a hold of one of the gypsy's arms and, after staring at it for a moment in confusion (How was he supposed to do this…?), grabbed the gypsy's sleeve cuff in his left hand and the gypsy's wrist in his right. Holding the sleeve in place, Quasimodo attempted to shove the gypsy's arm through the sleeve. This resulted in the end of the sleeve splitting in Quasimodo's hand; however the arm had remained in place.

Staring at the torn sleeve in his hand, Quasimodo slowly turned until he faced Laverne. He looked up and gave her a helplessly confused look.

Ignoring the hysterical laughter of Hugo, she gave him a soft smile, hobbled over and offered her advice. "Take this off first." She said, gently placing her stone hand on the gypsy's stomach. "And then the sleeves."

Quasimodo nodded. As he turned back to the gypsy, he realized exactly what he was doing. He felt his face burn in embarrassment, but he tried to shake it off. Taking a steadying breath, Quasimodo grasped the gypsy's shirt and began tugging it off. It came off with little difficulty until Quasimodo reached the gypsy's arms. However, that obstacle was easily solved by placing the gypsy's arms over his head. The shirt then easily slid off from there, unlike his other attempts.

After placing the dark blue long sleeved shirt on top of the black gloves and purple over-shirt, Quasimodo got a first look at the gypsy's injuries. There were brown and yellow bruises spotted across his dark Romani skin. His arms and chest bled where he had been struck by the weapons of the guards.

Realizing how hurt the gypsy was, Quasimodo glanced around his empty room for anything that might stop the bleeding of the gypsy. Laverne, always one step ahead, handed him one of his old green shirts that he hadn't been able to fit into for years. Giving her a grin of thanks, Quasimodo accepted his shirt and began tearing it into tiny strips, in which he then proceeded to carefully wind about the gypsy's skin.

The gypsy winced in pain, and shifted about, trying to separate himself from the pain Quasimodo was indirectly causing. "Sorry, Sorry, Sorry…" Quasimodo quietly apologized as he continued working.

The gypsy whined and whimpered, twisting and turning upon Quasimodo's tiny mattress. Quasimodo was forced into restraining the unconscious gypsy as he bound him up, lest he flip off the bed and injure himself more.

Yet, finally, the arduous, painstaking process had been completed. The gypsy lay, now peaceful, on the lumpy mattress. Quasimodo, whom had retreated to leaning against the doorway, gazed at the gypsy, wondering if what he had done was right or not…

Hadn't his Master always told him that gypsies were evil? But…he hadn't actually seen the gypsy do anything wrong. Yet, the gypsy _had_ been at the Church to claim Sanctuary, so he _must_ have done something wrong to need it. But, then again, gypsies _did_ have Sanctuary at the Church of Notre Dame, so the soldiers had no right to abuse the gypsy upon Church grounds.

Quasimodo sighed. He had always thought the gypsy to be likable when he saw him at the annual Festival of Fools…But…he was a gypsy, and gypsies were evil.

He supposed he could keep the gypsy overnight and tell Frollo about him when His Master came in the morning.

Yet...Quasimodo frowned when he thought of telling Frollo. His Master would certainly be pleased, whether it was the right thing to do or not. But, suppose the gypsy hadn't done anything wrong? Then Quasimodo would really be a monster…

Quasimodo heaved another sigh. But, what if the gypsy _had_ done something wrong? Then he would be doing something right. For once.

He shook his head to clear these troubling thoughts. Pushing away from the doorway, he headed through the main room and onto the balcony. The air was crisp, cool and refreshing, quite different from the humid and stifling air inside, which was filled with his puzzling thoughts. He took a deep breath, and slowly released it. (What on Earth was he going to do…?)

He took a seat on the balcony railing with a sigh and rested his back, which was burning from all the climbing and moving he had done earlier. His eyes glazed over as he stared out of the empty, peaceful, reassuring streets of Paris. The wind gently tossed his deep red hair in front of his eyes, which he slowly pushed out of his face.

Well, he decided, what's done is done. He had saved the gypsy whether it was the right thing to do or not and there was simply no changing that. Problem was, what was he to do with the gypsy, now that he had him?

He could easily turn him into Frollo.

Yet, he could let the gypsy free just as easily.

His Master _would_ be pleased, that was for certain. But…but what if the gypsy hadn't done anything wrong…? Quasimodo couldn't give the gypsy to His Master if he hadn't done anything wrong, could he?

He supposed he could always ask the gypsy when he woke up…but, if gypsies were was evil as Frollo believed, wouldn't the gypsy lie to him?

He had no way of knowning the real intentions of the gypsy. Quasimodo heaved another sigh, rubbing his hands across his deformed face. He'd save his decision for the morning.

It had been a long day.


	4. Escaping

**Title: **Sanctuary

**Author: **brobdignagian

**Rating: **PG-13 for violence.

**Disclaimer: **I am not the owner the Hunchback of Notre Dame, either the book, which is owned by Victor Hugo, nor the animated movie, which is owned by Disney.

**Summary: **What if Clopin and Quasimodo had met before the Festival of Fools?

**Notes: **This story is based on the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as I have not yet finished reading Victor Hugo's book.

Clopin is still around 20.

Quasimodo is still around 13.

And, as always, forgive me if any of the characters are not in character.

* * *

Clopin vaguely floated into consciousness. He felt numb, fuzzy, heavy. Dimly, he wondered what in Paris had happened the night before that would have put him in such a state (Had he gotten drunk and passed out _again_?). Comfortable as he was, Clopin made no effort to fully wake himself up and face whatever dangers were destined to present themself to him—whether it be the hyper eight year old Esmeralda waiting to play with him, or Frollo's peeved guards, waiting to torture and maim him.

Frollo's guards…

Clopin gasped. His eyes shot open as he remembered the laughter of Frollo's guards and the abuse they had unleashed upon him. His eyes dashed around the room, barely taking in the vacant, cramped quarters of whoever's room he was in, desperately looking for an exit. He wasn't in a cell, but that was no guarantee he wouldn't be in one soon. He sat up, ready to get out of bed and make his escape…

…only to fall back against the pillow, gasping again, this time in pain. His chest _burned_. Clopin put a hand to his chest, surveying the damage. He was unable to make out the majority of it, as someone had already bandaged him up. Clopin's face darkened—they probably only wanted him alive so that they could torture information out of him later.

He needed to get out of there.

Bracing his arms against the straw mattress, he slowly pushed himself out of bed, trying not to damage himself even further. He made it half way before his arms gave out, and he collapsed against the bed once again.

He groaned, running a hand through his dark hair. He would have to go about this a different way. Glancing about the room once more, he searched for something close to him, so that he could grab a hold of it and pull himself up.

No such luck. The barren room was just that—barren.

With a deep sigh, he did the one thing that was guaranteed to get him out of bed. Taking a deep breath, he ground his teeth together and rolled off the bed. He held back a cry of pain as his chest hit the hard, wooden floor. Breathing hard, he rested his forehead against the ground as he gained back his breath and the ability to move. So much for trying not to damage himself even further.

Once he felt he could attempt escaping again, he propped himself up on his elbows. With one hand to the floor, and the other grasping the bed, Clopin managed to obtain a sitting position. Leaning against the bed, facing the door, he, once again, was trying to catch his breath.

"Come _on_, Trouillefou." He addressed himself. "Just, get to your feet." With a nod, and aid from the bed once more, he managed to stand.

He stood uneasily for a moment before he took a step (parallel to the bed, just in case he fell.). And another. And another, without falling. Clopin broke out into a smile—the ability to stand would certainly make escaping a _whole _lot easier.

He turned towards the door and took another step. However his foot didn't hit the wood as he had expected, but cloth. Looking down, he recognized his purple overshirt, dark blue shirt and black gloves.

Convenient. At least he wouldn't be wandering around without a shirt on.

Squatting down, he made quick work of pulling on his clothes. First the dark blue shirt, then the gloves, and then the tattered overshirt. Pushing himself back up with a minimal amount of pain, he straightened out his shirts before starting to the door once more.

When he got to the door, he grasped the doorknob and opened it just enough to see though. Pressing his long face to the crack, he peeked out. There wasn't anyone standing guard by the door. Clopin frowned. That was unusual—there was always at least one guard to watch him in case he escaped (He _was_ infamous for it, after all.). He opened the door a bit more and stuck his head out. If _that_ didn't get their attention...

Nothing happened. Clopin looked around. No guards anywhere. His spirits brightened—What luck! He threw open the door, turned left and (sticking close to the walls in case someone came or he stumbled) started walking, intent on finding an exit.

It wasn't long until he came upon what must have been the main room. There were tall windows, a table, and a man—a guard?—sitting at the table, presumably asleep, with his head resting in his arms upon the table. Going on tip-toe, Clopin snuck over to the guard, determined to remember the face so he could take his revenge later on when he had the right supplies. He leaned close...

Only to gasp and draw back when he caught sight of the guard's(?) face. Clopin was sure he would always be able to recognize _that_ face—aside from the large nose and buck teeth, the skin above his left eye was enlarged, causing the eye itself to be twice as small than the right eye, which was normal compared to the rest of his face. Clopin took a step back. It was then that he realized the man had a hunchback, adding to his deformity.

Clopin was ready to forget all of his thoughts of revenge and just _escape_ when the man's deformed eyes opened. Clopin took another step back, preparing himself for the screams and curses that were, without a doubt, fated to follow.

But the man yawned and stretched, his back cracking(the man winced), and began rubbing his eyes. Clopin took yet another step back, and turned around, ready to bolt for it (Surely someone with a back _that_ bad couldn't be a good runner?), when the man said, "Oh, you're awake."

Clopin froze. He was caught. Slowly, he turned back around, facing the disfigured man. The man stood up and gave Clopin a friendly smile. Somehow, that was more frightening than the predicted yelling and cursing.

The man walked closer to Clopin. "Are you feeling alright? The guards hurt you pretty badly…"

For every step the man took forward, Clopin took a step back. The man frowned when he became aware of this fact, "What's wrong?" He asked, his pace slowing down.

Clopin's, however, did not. At least, until he hit a wall. Then, he turned, and ran down the first hallway.

…He froze as he realized it was less of a hallway and more of a balcony. Clopin felt his jaw drop at the view, realizing he was not, as he had assumed, in the Palace of Justice, but at the top of the Church of Notre Dame!

He was just wondering how in Paris he was going to get down from this high up, when he was broken out of his thoughts by the man grabbing his arm. Before Clopin had time to pull his arm away, the man frantically spoke. "Quick! You must hide!" The man then began pulling Clopin back into the main room, which he then started quickly looking around. Clopin heard the distant sound of footsteps.

The man lifted the tablecloth, turning back to Clopin. "Hurry, get under there!" Clopin didn't move—not quite trusting the possible-guard.

It was only the sound of Frollo's voice that caused Clopin to dive under the table.


	5. Frollo

**Title: **Sanctuary

**Author: **brobdignagian

**Rating: **PG-13 for violence.

**Disclaimer: **I am not the owner the Hunchback of Notre Dame, either the book, which is owned by Victor Hugo, nor the animated movie, which is owned by Disney.

**Summary: **What if Clopin and Quasimodo had met before the Festival of Fools?

**Notes: **This story is based on the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as I have not yet finished reading Victor Hugo's book.

Clopin is still around 20.

Quasimodo is still around 13.

* * *

Judge Claude Frollo was _not_ in a good mood.

His idiotic soldiers had been _so_ close to capturing the Gypsy King! They had him on the ground, surrounded and beaten. Instead of bringing the gypsy to him, _like they were ordered to_, they fled. Fled!

They _claimed_ they had seen the devil. Frollo rolled his eyes heaven-ward. The Archdeacon had a blood red cloak. If it was dark, and the Archdeacon had the hood up, he could, admittingly, be mistaked for the devil.

Not that he was excusing the act, of course, because the mistake would not have happened in the first place if they had just brought the gypsy to him as ordered!

Frollo stormed up the entrance of Notre Dame, his mood reflected in the stormy clouds gathering in the distance. With a basket perched on his arm, he threw open the Church doors. The Archdeacon jumped as the doors slammed against the stone walls; Frollo smirked.

"Oh, Frollo, you frightened me!" The Archdeacon exclaimed, a hand over his heart as he stood at the alter.

"My apologies," Frollo purred with no hint of remorse. He turned on his heel towards the stairs to the bell tower. He waltzed up said stairs, placing the best "nice guy" façade on as he prepared to meet Quasimodo.

Frollo absolutely _detested_ the deformed creature; Frollo was forced to give up his precious time tending to something that shouldn't have been born.

However…

Frollo was unable to shake the feeling that it would become of some use to him. And if it _were_ to be of some use to him, Frollo needed to be able to manipulate him to his will, Unfortunately, this meant he had to be _nice_ to the beast.

…The deformed thing who didn't know _anything_ about anything. Frollo was forced to teach him if he wanted the thing to be at least _somewhat_ coherent. Frollo then snorted as he realized what he had thought. Quasimodo, coherent. An oxymoron if he'd ever made one. And the funniest one he'd ever heard.

Shaking these thoughts, he resigned himself to yet another day of loathing and stupidity. He put on his mask of aloofness as he climbed the last steps to the bell tower.

He found the varmint standing at the table covered in his silly little wood carvings. He was whispering to something… or someone? Frollo narrowed his eyes and greeted his charge. "Good morning, Quasimodo."

The thing gasped and spun around, eyes reflecting his surprise, panic, and guilt. Frollo glanced around for the gargoyles, his "friends" that he regularly "conversed" with. And indeed, there they were, placed next to him by the table. It was then that decided the lesson for the beast today—the difference between inanimate and animate objects.

"G-G-Good morning, M-Master." The thing stuttered back, his 'good' eye twitching. Revolting.

Frollo took the still swaying basket off his arm. "How about breakfast?" It wasn't a question. Quasimodo nodded and hurried over to shelves to get their utensils—Frollo's silver, the creature's wood. Frollo gave the thing an entirely fake smile, taking out two bottles; extremely diluted wine for the vermin, and perfectly preserved wine for him.

Frollo took a seat, the creature jerkily following his example. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes to the heavens once more, he began to introduce today's daily lesson. "Now, Quasimodo, about your so called 'friends'," He started, sweeping his arm towards the gargoyles that sat in the corner of the room. "You are well aware that they are made out of…"

Suddenly, a gust of wind from out the window managed to make its way into the bell tower and decided to run off with Frollo's hat. Frollo groped wildly for his hat, his fingers brushing against the black material as it flew out of his reach. With a frustrated sigh, Frollo stood, pushing back the beast as it started for his hat. "Don't worry, dear boy, I've got it."

_Dear boy…_Frollo shuddered as he reached his hat. He did not want the beast's grubby hands over his best hat. As he bent to pick it up, he noticed the wind had also caused the cover of the bells fall off—Obviously his charge had noticed the gathering storm and had prepared for it accordingly.

At least it had learned _something_.

Standing back up, Frollo noticed the reflective surface of the bells as he swept his hat back and onto his head, using the bells as an impromptu mirror. It worked well enough. As he adjusted his hat, Frollo's eyes flickered back to the table, where the vermin was waiting for him. However, he frowned when he recognized a flash of purple from under the table. What in Paris could that be…?

He turned back around, striding intently to the table to see what was under it. Sure, it could be a bird or an animal or something (Which was most likely exactly what it was), but there was always the chance that it was something, or someone, else. He ignored the panicked Quasimodo as he arrived at the table and ducked down to see this animal Quasimodo had, once again, dragged into the bell tower.

It wasn't a bird.

In fact, it wasn't even an animal.

It was a gypsy.

And not even _a_ gypsy, it was _the _gypsy. _The_ gypsy his guards had beaten the night before. _The_ gypsy that had eluded him for _years. The_ one gypsy he had ever needed to successfully rid himself of the Court of Miracles forever.

The Gypsy King.

With a raging cry, Frollo grabbed the arm of the gypsy and dragged him from under the wooden table. Hauling him up, he shoved the gypsy in Quasimodo's face. "What." He demanded. "Is. This?"

The creature gulped, looking as panicked, frightened, and as guilty as ever before. "I-I-I-"

Growling, Frollo grabbed one of the filthy arms of the beast, and dragged them both, the Gypsy King and the monster, down the hall. Once they made it to Quasimodo's room, Frollo yanked open the door, threw Quasimodo inside, slammed the door shut, and then proceeded to lock the door. Frollo knew fully well he'd get out somehow—he always did (The Archdeacon's doing, most likely.)

Hands full of struggling gypsy, Frollo physically dragged him down the stairs. Luckily, the gypsy seemed to be missing the dagger he always had on him. Instead, he was punching Frollo's arms, chest, and face, yelling, "Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Damn you, _Sanctuary_!"

Sure the Gypsy might have Sanctuary, and sure, Frollo might be bruised in the morning, but if he could manage to get outside the Church and into the Palace of Justice, it would all be worth it.

As they made their way down the steps and into the Church, the gypsy began resisting more than ever. It was a constant fury of punches, and yelling at the top of his lungs. (Frollo silently Thanked God that it wasn't a Sunday, full of church goers who would be staring at him in shock and disbelief.)

But the Archdeacon would still be there.

Frollo stopped for a moment, and aimed a punch at the gypsy's head, intending on easily knocking they gypsy out. That way, the Archdeacon wouldn't be notified, and it would make it easier for Frollo to drag him out of the Church. However, just as he was about to act on his intention, who should appear but the Archdeacon?

"Frollo!"

Frollo snarled and threw the gypsy to the stone floor in his anger. _He had been so close!_

Instead of turning to the safety of the Archdeacon, like a many a gypsy hand, this one let out a cry of his own and lunged at Frollo. Now with nothing holding either of them back, Frollo and the gypsy battled it out on the floor of the Church. Punching, kicking, pulling, screaming, anything that might give them the upper hand.

Their battle was short but effective. The Archdeacon reached them, grabbed the gypsy, and held him back, prohibiting him from continuing his attack on Frollo. They gypsy quickly calmed down, but did not tear his glare away from the Judge. Frollo glared back with all his might.

The Archdeacon just shook his head in disappointment. "I thought you were better than this Frollo. Resorted to this."

"You don't know who that is!" Frollo shouted back.

"It's a human being. Just like the two of us." The Archdeacon tried to reason.

"He's a gypsy!"

But the Archdeacon just shook his head once more and with a gentle hand on the gypsy's shoulder, started to walk off. "I suggest you leave before you are forbidden to come back."

With eyes that could kill, Frollo glared at them once more, before gathering himself and pulling himself off the floor. He turned and strutted out of the Church of Notre Dame. He _would _get the Gypsy King. Even if it killed him.

* * *

Waii!! *bows* My apologies guys! I had a bad case of writers block, followed by a horrible case of life…However, I am back now, and you can expect updates about every week or so. Thanks to all of you who reviewed/faved/alerted this story during my time off! It was all of you who convinced me to continue writing! Thanks!!


	6. Conversations

**Title: **Sanctuary

**Author: **brobdignagian

**Rating: **PG-13 for violence.

**Disclaimer: **I am not the owner the Hunchback of Notre Dame, either the book, which is owned by Victor Hugo, nor the animated movie, which is owned by Disney.

**Summary: **What if Clopin and Quasimodo had met before the Festival of Fools?

**Notes: **This story is based on the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as I have not yet finished reading Victor Hugo's book.

Clopin is still around 20.

Quasimodo is still around 13.

* * *

"_Master_! _Master_!" Quasimodo shrieked, his voice breaking as he beat on the door of his room. He urgently yanked on the door handle to no avail. He closed his eyes, desperately fighting the tears that pricked at the corner of his eyes.

His Master had not been happy.

So unhappy to the point that he had actually _locked_ Quasimodo in his room. Frollo had been angry at him before, yes, but never to this extent. Quasimodo banged both hands on the door in aggravation, before sighing and resting his forehead against the strong, hard wood.

He knew he should have just handed the gypsy over to His Master! If he had, His Master wouldn't be mad at him, he wouldn't be locked in his room, and he wouldn't be sitting there batting his feelings of self-regret.

Wouldn't he?

Quasimodo sighed. He supposed it didn't really matter in the end—the gypsy was still being taken to the Palace of Justice. Resigned, he half-heartedly tried the doorknob one last time (Maybe be could find his Master and find out what the gypsy had done wrong; the gypsy had to have done something wrong if his Master got _this _upset about the whole thing), yet to his surprise, found it open.

He snapped his head up and threw open the door, finding Victor, Hugo, and Laverne standing outside with looks of concern on their grey, stony faces. He didn't answer the question that was clearly written on all their faces; instead he asked an urgent question of his own, "Where's Frollo?"

Laverne was the one who answered, pointing an arm to the staircase. "Down to the Church, but Quasi, I don't think—" But Quasimodo wasn't able to hear the rest, as he had jumped up and spun down the spiraling staircase.

He reached the bottom in enough time to see His Master storm out of Notre Dame, as well as the Archdeacon and the gypsy strolling in the opposite direction. Quasimodo was momentarily torn—should he go after his Master, or the Archdeacon?—before deciding that conversing with the Archdeacon would be, admittedly, the safest option. (If Frollo was upset enough to lock him in his room….he shuddered, unwilling to continue on that thought.)

With one last look at the Church doors Frollo had stormed out of, Quasimodo made his way to the Archdeacon, the gypsy having wandered out of sight.

The Archdeacon turned with a smile upon recognizing him and set a hand on top of Quasimodo's head. "Ah, Quasimodo. How are you?" He questioned.

Quasimodo gave a little smile, ducking his head. The Archdeacon was always so nice to him… "Ah…F-Fine sir. Thank you for asking."

The Archdeacon gently smiled and ruffled Quasimodo's blood red hair. "What are you doing down here?" He kindly asked. A valid question—even when the Church is empty, Quasimodo rarely ventured down the steps. Yet, whenever he did, the Archdeacon always went out of his way to make him feel welcomed.

"Ah…I was just……the gypsy, he….was beaten yesterday, and I-I…" Quasimodo stammered out, eyes on the gypsy who was wandering about the church as if he had never been in one before.

"Were you the one who rescued him?" The Archdeacon questioned with a knowing smile.

Quasimodo slowly nodded, eyes flicking from the gypsy up to the Archdeacon. The Archdeacon gave him another smile, and put a hand on his back, gently pushed him towards the gypsy (who was now sitting in a pew, tapping his fingers on his knees and looking around nervously, anxiously). "Go talk to him." He suggested.

Quasimodo's eyes widened at the very idea. "W-What?" He stammered out.

"Go and talk to him. You saved him, right? You should introduce yourself. Besides, you might have more in common with him than you think." He said with an impish wink before walking away.

Quasimodo stood, flabbergasted, as he watched the Archdeacon walk away. What in Paris…?

He turned his sights back to the gypsy. Talk with him? And what had the Archdeacon meant, the idea that they might have something in common? Him, a bell ringer deformed creature, and a gypsy? With a gulp, he slowly made his way to the gypsy-filled pew. The Archdeacon had never led him wrong before...

The gypsy looked up with a look of apprehension as Quasimodo approached. Quasimodo hovered for a moment, before finally taking a seat on the pew in front of the gypsy. Neither of them said anything.

_Just _say_ something!_ Quasimodo silently berated himself. _He's not going to run away—he didn't when he saw you up in the Tower, and he hasn't run away now. Just…ask for his name; it's not hard. Just, open your mouth and say, "What's your name?" It's not hard. Just open your mouth and say it, now, now, now!_

Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened his mouth and quietly asked, "W-What's your-your name?"

The gypsy looked up, a bit emotionlessly at first, before offering a small smile. "Clopin. Clopin Trouillefou." He introduced. "What's yours?"

Quasimodo was a little surprised that the gypsy—Clopin—had asked. Who would want to know the name of a creature like him? But he answered nevertheless. "Oh, I-I'm Quasimodo."

They gyp—_Clopin_—simply nodded, and they were quiet for a while longer. The Archdeacon had come back into the Church, and began lighting the candles.

Clopin gave a dramatic sigh and flung himself down into the pew, so that he was laying down. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he finally spoke up. "I need to get out of here…"

Quasimodo turned to him, blinking. "How come?" He couldn't help but ask.

The gypsy didn't move. "I have to get back to my people." He simply answered.

"The Court of Miracles." Quasimodo spoke in realization. The gypsy nodded. Frollo was constantly ranting and raving about the urgent need to find it. Even if Quasimodo couldn't understand the reason why.

Another silence. Quasimodo couldn't think of another conversation starter. He was debating on whether or not he should leave, when the gypsy spoke up again.

"Don't you hate it here?" Clopin wondered. Quasimodo glanced down at the gypsy, still laying on the pew, arms now crossed over his chest, looking up at Quasimodo with a question in his eyes. "These stone walls! This…containment! I can't stand it." He said, gesturing all around, shaking his head at the mere thought.

Quasimodo shook his own head. "I don't live down here. I live up there," He pointed up at the roof. "In the bell tower." He explained.

"It's still the same." The gypsy reasoned, waving off Quasimodo's logic. "Why don't you just leave?" It wasn't an accusing question--he actually seemed intersted in the anwer.

"No, no, no. I couldn't do that. I couldn't betray my Master like that." Quasimodo rapidly shook his head, denying even the thought of leaving the Church without Frollo's permission.

Clopin raised an eyebrow. "What? Your 'Master'?"

"Frollo."

Clopin's eyes immediately narrowed at the name of the Judge. "Frollo? _He's_ your 'Master'?" His eyes darkened at the thoughts that idea evoked. He shook his head once more, asking, "How can you put up with someone like that?"

"Because….because I owe him." He whispered. "He saved me when I was little. He let me live here. I owe him." He repeated.

The gypsy gazed at him in silence for a moment, before simply stating, "I'm sorry."


	7. A Way Out?

**Title: **Sanctuary

**Author: **brobdignagian

**Rating: **PG-13 for violence.

**Disclaimer: **I am not the owner the Hunchback of Notre Dame, either the book, which is owned by Victor Hugo, nor the animated movie, which is owned by Disney.

**Summary: **What if Clopin and Quasimodo had met before the Festival of Fools?

**Notes: **This story is based on the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as I have not yet finished reading Victor Hugo's book.

Clopin is still around 20.

Quasimodo is still around 13.

* * *

_Clopin huffed and gasped, and yet he still continued to run. He couldn't stop—no way could he stop now! Whipping his head behind him (A moment, a moment, only for a moment) It was gaining! Flinging his head back around, he momentarily closed his eyes, desperately pushing himself harder, faster. His breathing increased, his muscles ached, he became increasingly weary, but still he continued._

_His surroundings morphed. He was in the graveyard! Considerably brightening, he glanced around for the right one…There it was! Hurrying over towards the biggest grave there, he threw open the opening. Glancing about him once more, he climbed into the grave and hurried down the steps._

_But it wasn't the Court of Miracles he dropped into—it was the town square. And just there, was his wagon, surrounded by children, waiting for his almost-daily puppet show. He took a step towards them with a smile, quickly deciding which story he was going to act out (Perhaps one with a prince and a princess…), but his steps quickly stopped at the sound of hooves. _

_There stood Frollo, mounted on his black horse, sword in hand. _

_Turning around, the children were still there, but now looking up at him with those big eyes of theirs. "Clopin? Mr. Clopin? Oh, please tell us a story, Mr. Clopin! Please?" _

"_You must get out of here!" He yelled at the children, but they still grinning innocently up at him, plead for a story in their eyes. Frollo's horse started towards him, first at a walk, then trot, then a run. Clopin unsheathed his dagger, standing in front of the children, eyes narrowed at the oncoming horse. _

_Amazingly, the children did not seem afraid of the approaching horse. Instead, they latched onto his arms and legs, clung onto his middle, and chanted, "Story! Story! Clopin! Clopin!"_

_The horse continued to rush towards them. Clopin fought to break free of the grasp of the children. Upon accomplishing this, he turn and sped the opposite direction. The sound of hooves intensified. The children screamed his name._

_He scrambled down the street, past the butcher, the candlestick maker, the baker, the candlestick maker, the butcher, the baker, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker…_

_The cobblestone street started to thin out. He jumped from rock to rock, the sound of hooves never ceasing, until he started to fall, falling, falling, falling…_

Clopin gasped and shot up in the pew he had fallen asleep in. He glanced around the building—stone walls, stone ceiling, he was enclosed in this prison with no way out!

He found he couldn't breath. Air, air, he needed air! He shakily stood up and blindly, quickly made his way to the main doors of the church, attempting not to break anything as he knocked them over. (The walls were entirely too close for his liking. His breath intensified as the grey stone walls of the Church refused keep away from him! He was shaking, shaking…This was too much! He needed to go back to the Court! He needed to help little Esmeralda for her upcoming dance (A dancing eight year old was cute and, more importantly, brought money for his people.) He needed out of this Church! He needed _**air**_.)

He hand found the handle of the Church, and he threw open the door, took another blind step and ran into…

…the candlestick maker?

The candlestick maker was a tall old man, with graying hair (it used to be black), a kind face and deep blue eyes. And he looked just as surprised to see Clopin, as Clopin was to see him.

Claustrophobia hitting him once again, Clopin pushed pasted the candlestick maker (He had forgotten what his name was...), closed his eyes and took a deep breath of clean, cool, fresh air. Upon opening his eyes, he saw guards that Frollo had, no doubt, planted around the church in order to keep an eye on him. The guards too, caught sight of him, and started towards the church. Clopin, eyes wide, scrambled backwards and into the candlestick maker once more.

The candlestick maker looked down at Clopin, and gently grabbed his arm before he fell to the ground. "Woah there, steady, steady…" He said.

The guards were coming closer to Clopin…They held up their weapons, a smirk upon all four of their faces. Clopin moved backwards, against the candlestick maker's hand, and back into the Church, the one place where he knew he could be safe.

The candlestick maker, with a confused look on his face, followed him inside the church, closing the door as he did so. He took a step closer to Clopin, bent down and put a hand on his shoulder, "Are you alright?" He questioned, honest concern shining in his eyes. Clopin, simply nodded, unsure as to how to answer.

It was then that the candlestick maker must have realized exactly whom he was talking to, as recognition flashed in his eyes. "Say…you wouldn't happen to be the gypsy from the Festival of Fools, would you?" He question. With a barely perceptual wince (He would throw him back to the guards now, he knew it). Clopin nodded. But, instead, the candlestick maker's face simply brightened, and informed Clopin that, "Oh man. My wife simply _adores_ you!"

Clopin blinked. What the…

Clopin was, thankfully, saved from answering when the Archdeacon entered, and saw the candlestick maker. A smile came over the Archdeacon's face. "Oh, Arthur, I thought I heard you enter. How are you?"

The candlestick maker—Arthur—smiled and answered, "Why, I'm just fine. How about you? I see you've got another one of those gypsies that like to hang around here, huh?" he was still smiling, which meant that he was joking, or it was an inside joke of some sort between the two of them.

The Archdeacon laughed, further proving Clopin's theory. "Yes," The Archdeacon agreed. "Frollo's really after this one." He explain, sobering a bit. "Quasimodo saved him, but now he's trapped here…"

Clopin, tired of being discussed as if he wasn't there (just like everyone else did…), walked off in an attempt to find all the other entrances that he could use to escape. He wandered from the front to the back, to the side doors, all with no avail. He slammed the last door shut, and, kicked the door, much to the amusement of the guards. With a sigh, he headed back to the front of the Church.

The candlestick maker and the Archdeacon both looked up when he entered again. "Oh, Clopin, there you are. We were talking about you (Clopin rolled his eyes; he hadn't noticed), and we think we've figured out a way to get you back to your home."

Clopin stopped all eye rolling and sarcastic thoughts. "You…have?"

* * *

Blarg.

I apologize for the lack of weekly updates. AP test are coming up (They should have been this week...), and the whole Swine Flu crap has put all of us school, and then BACK in school in the middle of the week, and generally messing everything up (I live in Texas--it's quite a problem, really.). So, I deeply apologize.


	8. The End

**Title: **Sanctuary

**Author: **brobdignagian

**Rating: **PG-13 for violence.

**Disclaimer: **I am not the owner the Hunchback of Notre Dame, either the book, which is owned by Victor Hugo, nor the animated movie, which is owned by Disney.

**Summary: **What if Clopin and Quasimodo had met before the Festival of Fools?

**Notes: **This story is based on the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as I have not yet finished reading Victor Hugo's book.

* * *

_It's the day for breaking rules_

_Come and join the feast_

_Of…_

_Clopin stood ready to slide underneath the legs of his fellow gypsy, whom was parading as a priest. It was the annual festival—The Festival of Fools, and Clopin was in his element. They'd all practiced for _weeks_, unwilling to mess up and miss out on the money the Festival promised to bring._

_As he stood, waiting for his cue, he glanced up at the Church of Notre Dame. He still wasn't able to forget the events that took place there, no matter how he tried…._

Clopin stood up in the bell tower, waiting for the eventual ringing of the bells that would signal the plan going into action. He glanced at this cohort, the disfigured kind-hearted hunchback, who looked exactly as he felt about the plan—fearful, incredulous. Clopin sighed, the plan was simple enough, distract the guards so that Quasimodo could jump him from the Church to the nearest rooftop. Then Clopin would go from roof top to rooftop until he was out of sight of the guards, then climb to ground and finally, _finally_, make his way back to the Court.

_It sounds easy, _Clopin thought. _But is it as easy as it sounds?_

Quasimodo looked terrified. He always had the same sort of look on his face, Clopin realized. Nervousness, fear. _Well, with Frollo as his "Master", that's not too surprising._ Clopin shook his head at the thought. Frollo, Master. It was disgusting. Revolting. But what could he do? He was just a gypsy.

The hunchback needed a good laugh. That much Clopin could do. He reached into the pocket of his shirt, and felt around for the puppet he had only recently made. Little Esmeralda absolutely _adored _the puppet and the things Clopin made the puppet do. Quasimodo might be older than Esmeralda, but growing up with Frollo, he'd probably laugh at the same jokes.

With a glace at the hunchback (who was still looking out onto the distance), Clopin whipped out his look alike. He moved his puppet clad hand over to Quasimodo, poking him in the shoulder. The hunchback turned his head around, looking at what had touched his shoulder and blinked. He stared at the puppet, and then back up at Clopin. "What-what is this?" He hesitatingly questioned

"_This?!" _The puppet questioned, outraged, raising it's self to Quasimodo's eyelevel. "I'm a puppet, what else?"

The hunchback glanced once more time between Clopin and the puppet before obviously gathering what was going on. Quick one, he was. Quasimodo smiled. "Oh-oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Puppet. How are you?"

"Absolutely miserable! But you would be too, if you had to live in _his_ smelly shirt." The puppet exclaimed, motioning back to Clopin.

Clopin scoffed, (relieving at the smile Quasimodo wore. The kid was too tense for his own good.). "Oh, please. You can come out any time you want, you know that full well."

The puppet made an exaggerated rolling of its eyes. "Well, I—" But what the puppet said next was drowned out by the sound of ringing Church bells. Quaismodo and Clopin glanced at each other. Clopin silently put his puppet away. They then turned their attention to the ground, at the confused guards. The Church bells never rang at this time, so of course the guards would be confused.

Suddenly, the attention of the guards was taken by the side entrance of the Church, as the candlestick maker ran out of the church with a barrel of wine. The barrel was big enough that it could, believably, hide someone inside of it. Clopin let out a bark of laughter at the cleverness of the candlestick maker. The guards would attempt to catch the candelstick maker, the open the wine barrel while Quasimodo and himself would escape. Brilliant.

As soon as the last guard rounded the corner, Quasimodo turned to Clopin with an obviously nervous smile. "R-Ready?" He questioned.

Clopin nodded. "Of course." He replied, as he took his sights off the ground and to the hunchback. _Just don't look back down_, he told himself. He was used to heights, yes, but Notre Dame was the tallest building in Paris.

The hunchback hesitatingly wrapped an arm around the gypsy's waist. Quaismodo closed his eyes, and started muttering to himself. It sounded something like, _please don't let me fall again, please don't let me fall again._

Clopin felt a spike of panic flow through him. _Fall? From this height? Surely they would be kil--!_ But before Clopin could finish his thought, the hunchback started running and jumped into the air. Clopin held back his scream and clung onto Quasimodo, as though the tighter his grip, the better chance they had to survive.

They stayed in the air just long enough for Clopin to think, with a sense of trepidation, _We've died, that's it, we're dead, no more Court, no more Esmeralda, no more money, no more—_

They landed hard. Quasimodo, surprisingly, landed on his feet, but the impact of the jump caused him to tumble to the ground, Clopin falling along with him. They lay there for a moment, breathing heavy, soaking in the feeling of being alive. Once Clopin had caught his breath, he shakily stood up, got to his feet and hurried across the rooftop. However, before he could jump to the other building, he stopped and turned around.

There lay Quasimodo, the poor hunchback tied to Frollo, still laying on the ground. Curing his good nature, Clopin turned around and helped the hunchback to his feet. He helped the hunchback get steady, before nodding. "We should get going," Clopin muttered. "Before the guards get back."

The hunchback nodded, "Thank you." He rasped out.

Clopin paused once more, shaking his head. "No, it should be I who is thanking you." He stated. "_You _saved me. _You_ helped me escape. I owe you my life." He stated. The hunchback simply looked up at him with reverence so pure, Clopin had to look away. Thankfuly, before Clopin could say anything to make himself even more of a fool, the sound of angry guards reached his ears. "We must go." Clopin said, and hurried away, jumping to the other rooftop. He turned around once more, only to see the kind-hearted hunchback jumping off the roof, and then, moments later, climbing up the Church of Notre Dame.

_Come and join the feast_

_Of…_

_That was his cue! With a grin, Clopin pushed away the thoughts of his escape and slid through the legs of the gypsy in front of him. "Fools!" He proclaimed, laughing as confetti showered around him._

_He glanced all around him at the crowd, the smiling faces of the public, ready to be entertained. With a spark of realization, he spotted a figure in the crowd. He wore a dark blue cloak which covered his face, hunched down. _

_The Hunchback of Notre Dame was at the Festival of Fools._

_Clopin grinned. He had just thought of the perfect way to show his gratitude to the poor hunchback. Grabbing Quasimodo's arm, Clopin danced and sung for all he was worth._

**Fin.**


End file.
